Summer nights – a prose poem
The fragrance of the mock orange perfumes the air. To the west, a faint line of lighter green is still visible on the horizon, to the east, the sky is streaked with greyish pink. The Nordic summer night is brief, a shadow, no more, between light and light.
Such nights should not be spent indoors. They should be spent in a rocking chair on the porch, while all around the shadowed forest rustles with life. Here a bird, there a twig that breaks. A bat hurls itself upwards, is silhouetted for an instant against the full moon, before disappearing from sight.
Dawn streaks the eastern horizon. The lake still retains some of the light it trapped at sunset – or so it seems, the waters lighter than the sky. A gaggle of wild geese take off in a flurry of wings, a deer rises from its bed among the lupins and melts into the safety of the trees. The blackbirds sing, the blue tits chirp, and just like that the night is over.
The Nordic summer night is brief and short – as is the Nordic summer.